


fairy tale

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Brax shows up in this for maybeee a hot second, Gen, One-Shot, Thirteen Week, but it sure IS, half-meta half-story??, listen Doctor Who is fantasy and yes I will fight you about it, listen I'm not quite sure what this is, prompt-fill, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 10:34:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20424530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Every hundred years, the people of Quintas gather for the story.





	fairy tale

**Author's Note:**

> Hey gang, wreckageofstars here - I'm just doing some quarantine fuelled spring cleaning and consolidating some of my smaller one shots into a single one-shot collection (you can find it in my works under the title 'days like crazy paving'). You can find a cleaned up and edited version of this work there, but just out of consideration for people that maybe had already bookmarked the og version, I've left this one up and orphaned. Thanks!

Once, as some stories deign to tell it, there was a traveller.

—

No, no. No questions yet. Stories often have travellers, I know, I know. But it’s traditional, isn’t it, to start at the beginning.

A rather difficult thing for us, in fact. But I’ll explain why in a moment.

Deep breath.

Once, there was a traveller.

And once, the traveller was a child, on a planet made of silver and glass and majesty the likes of which you and I can scarcely imagine. And the child dreamed of the far and dark, and sat in the red grass under the silver trees, and made friends with a hermit who lived in a cave, which is often the case, with hermits.

They made another friend, too. But that’s not important, right now. Remember it for later.

A name?

No, no. No names. Not for the child, not for the hermit, or the friend, or the planet. They’ve been lost, you see, if they ever existed at all. But I’ll explain why in a moment.

This planet of glass was home to a race of beings who had made themselves the Lords of Time, you see, and so already this story is not so simple as you may have thought. These Lords of Time were protectors. Guardians of Time, they might have said, very stodgily, to which the traveller might have replied, ‘well, not doing a very good job of it, are you, look at it, it’s in a right state’—

Well. All of which is to say that although their power was great, they did not interfere in the affairs of the universe, and the traveller—

Well, you can imagine. You know how these stories go. Perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself.

Once, the traveller who was a child grew into a man. And he went to the city, as men often do, and the city was a thousand spires sparkling in the golden suns, encased in glass, and it was a beautiful, shining prison.

But for a while, the traveller stayed, and the traveller tried, and the traveller, as some legends tell it, even had a family of his own. He stole the moon, and the president’s wife and caused all sorts of trouble, though he would tell you that there is nothing wrong with a bit of trouble, sometimes. His body grew old, though by the standards of his people he was still very young. Well—I’ll explain why in a moment.

The traveller grew old in the beautiful, shining prison of the city, though its rules and strictures grated on him, year after year. It may be somewhat useless to speculate on why he stayed. There are some who say the traveller had such care in his hearts for his family and his people that he thought he could change them.

Perhaps he thought he could love them into something different.

But people and planets and hearts are not so easily changed, and the traveller’s attempts eventually caught the eye of Power. And Power fears that which might challenge it. Power cannot be loved into something other than what it is.

Power came for the traveller. And it came, so the whispered stories say, in the shape of someone the traveller loved.

There came a day, long after the president’s wife, long after the stolen moon, that the traveller’s brother knocked on his door, and his face was very grave.

“Brother,” the traveller said, because he knew his brother well, and he did not visit lightly. He did not do anything lightly. You see, his brother worked for Power, and there was almost nothing in the world that he loved more—except, perhaps, his brother. “Brother, what have you done?”

“Take the girl,” his brother told him, as solemn as a shadow. “Take the girl and _run_.”

The traveller ran.

—

Now, don’t be upset. The ending of one story is always the beginning of another. Power took the traveller’s family from him, yes, in all the ways that it could. This is true. But the traveller escaped with his granddaughter—the girl, yes, you remember—and stole—

Listen carefully. This is the important part. This is what makes this story different. The traveller stole a ship, but this was no ordinary ship. The traveller’s people were the Lords of Time, remember.

Ah, yes. Now you see. This is a story about _time_.

The traveller stole a time ship. And he and his granddaughter left their shining prison behind them. Well, for now, at least. And they had the most marvellous adventures. There are too many to recount here. We would be here for many nights, and this story is only meant to last one. But suffice to say that the traveller and his granddaughter and the friends that they made loved each other very much, and the traveller began to see all the ways that time could be a friend to them, as well. The Lords of Time, you see, had wanted nothing to do with the rest of the universe. They were content to stand back and watch, catalogue, record, but the traveller—

The traveller had always wanted more. The traveller had always dreamed of more. Dreamed, perhaps, of the far and dark, but also of the marvellous and terrible. And perhaps because Power had stolen what was most precious to them, the traveller continued to question, challenge, undermine it wherever they encountered it.

The traveller is a helper, you see. Not a hero. Well. I’ll explain why in a moment.

But perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself again. The traveller and his granddaughter and their friends travelled all throughout time and space and its relative dimensions, having adventures, learning to help. Eventually, the traveller’s granddaughter fell in love, as is often the case in stories. And though the traveller loved her very much, he knew that she would be happy and safe, and so he left her behind, so that she could live the sort of life he would never be able to give her.

(As it turns out, happy and safe are no guarantee, in this universe. But the traveller wouldn’t know this for a very, very long time.)

The traveller left her behind, and continued to have adventures with the friends they’d made. But his body grew older and frailer, as bodies are wont to do, and—

No, no. Don’t worry. It’s like I told you. The end of a story is only ever the beginning of a new one.

Yes, the traveller died. But perhaps the Lords of Time were privy to secrets that the likes of you and me will never know. Perhaps the traveller was so very good at running that they even managed to outrun death herself. Either way—

The traveller died, and was reborn.

And the story went on. That is, largely, how the story goes, you see. The traveller and their companions travel throughout time and space, righting wrongs, and having marvellous adventures. The traveller fights injustice wherever they find it, but never with a weapon. The traveller is never cruel, never cowardly. Mostly, the day is always saved.

Sometimes, everybody lives.

But the traveller’s people did not forget them, you see.

Power never forgets.

And the traveller’s people, you will remember, were the Lords of Time, and they could see into the past and the future as one, and so although the traveller was always running, they were never quite free of what they had once run from. And one day—very likely after a long, boring discussion and the implementation of seventeen new rules—the traveller’s people decided that they'd had quite enough of the traveller interfering in the business of the universe.

They brought the traveller home, you see. They killed him, as they were wont to do. And as a punishment for trying to help, the traveller—killed, reborn— was sent into exile.

Where? Well, that’s not for us to know. It’s only a story. Somewhere dull, somewhere quiet, somewhere—somewhere loved, though perhaps the traveller did not love it right away. And the traveller stayed for many years, trapped, though he found trouble enough to keep him busy, still.

You might recall the traveller’s childhood friend. I did tell you they would be important later, didn’t I?

The traveller’s friend also hated Power, you see, and in this they were really very similar. Their dreams, perhaps, were once very similar. But most would tell you that the similarities end there. You see, stories of the traveller’s friend often differ in their accounts in all but one: the traveller’s friend was not a helper.

To hear many speak of it, the traveller’s friend wanted nothing more than to watch everything burn.

No one is quite sure why.Some stories are too big. Some stories are too complicated. Some stories have been lost to time.

Whatever happened, whyever it happened, the traveller’s friend became their enemy—at least, most of the time. They dogged their time in exile, always a step ahead or a step behind. Even when the traveller’s exile ended, they were always there. And as the years passed, both the traveller and the traveller’s friend died and changed several times, and the story went on.

Oh. There is perhaps one thing I should mention. Well, I am the storyteller, after all, and I can tell a story how I like it. You weren’t expecting a story about time to be told in order, were you?

The traveller’s friend was not their only enemy. Oh, you can laugh, if you like. I think, for the traveller, the situation was likely less than humorous. No, the traveller made many enemies, in their journey across the universe. That’s how these things tend to go, you see. But there was one enemy—one, great enemy—

Oh, where to start. I suppose I should remind you that the traveller’s people were still keeping an eye on them. And though eventually the traveller’s exile was lifted, they were not free of the Power they’d once tried to escape. One day, they would be. But I’ll explain why in a moment.

The traveller’s people let them loose on the universe, but they did occasionally demand certain favours. The traveller was forced to return home more than once. Some tales even tell of one of the traveller’s own people being forced to travel with them for a while, watching, learning, growing.

But, once—

Once, the traveller’s people asked them to do the unthinkable. (This is often the case, with Power. Unthinkable is never so unthinkable as it is supposed to be.) The traveller’s people could see the past and the future, remember. Well, they saw a future so terrible that they were willing to break their own rules to prevent it. And who better to break the rules for them than the traveller?

And so the traveller was sent to the planet of a great warrior race, and ordered to prevent their creation, before they could grow to rule the universe.

But the traveller, you will remember, is a helper. Never cruel, never cowardly. A hero might have touched the wires together. A hero might have ended a race before they could begin.

But the traveller is not a hero.

The traveller decided that he did not have the right.

The traveller did not kill that great warrior race in the cradle, on that terrible day.

Why am I telling you this, you ask?

You may not like the answer. But that is how these stories often go.

The traveller made a decision that day. It may have been the right one. Very likely it was the right one. But even right decisions have consequences that we cannot always see. And over the years, in the shadow of the traveller’s marvellous adventures, that great warrior race grew into a terrible Power of its own, fuelled by hatred in the same measure as the traveller’s people were fuelled by apathy. Their hatred was so great as to destroy whole galaxies, but there were none who they so hated as much as the traveller and the traveller’s people.

They remembered, you see. They remembered who had once been sent to destroy them. And they never forgot.

In a different story, perhaps that would have been the end of it. But Power is never content to rest, under threat of a different Power, and the traveller’s people and the great warrior race became terrible enemies.

Well. You know how this goes. There was a war, of course. There is always a war.

But you must remember, the traveller’s people were the Lords of Time. And their enemies, knowing this, sought Power over time as well, so that they would never be outmatched. And so the war, which at one point was a small thing, a sharp thing, brutish and local and bloody, tangled its way out into the universe, into the Last Great Time War.

Ah. I see your faces. You know of this war. We all do.

But don’t worry. This is just a story. This is just a story about time.

Time, and the traveller. Now, I know what you’ll be thinking. The traveller is a helper. Never cruel, never cowardly. You may think there is no place for helpers in a war, but I think you would be wrong to think anything in war is so simple.

The traveller tried to run, of course. Running is always what the traveller does best. But eventually, even the traveller couldn’t run any longer. The reach of the Last Great Time War was so vast that no one in the universe could escape it.

The traveller loved their people, remember. Even when their people were cruel, even when their people were cowardly, even though they would never admit it. And the traveller was a helper, and helpers cannot stand injustice, and they cannot stand pain, and you will always find plenty of both in any war, no matter how big or small, no matter what side you happen to be on.

The traveller drank the poison. The traveller became someone new. The traveller became someone who could fight, and in doing so they gave up a piece of what made them themself.

Not a hero, you see. Still a helper.

There are not many stories of the Time War, though it sits in our minds like a terrible dream. Almost none with the traveller, but those who saw him insist he was there. They insist that he still refused all weapons.

They insist that he tried his best to be kind, even when, perhaps, it was impossible.

We know he was there, of course. No one else could have done it, you see.

No one else could have ended the war.

Now, hush. I will tell you how. But you must remember, every ending is also a beginning. And this ending—

Well. I told you before that the traveller would escape their people, one day. And the traveller did. But not gladly.

I think that perhaps the traveller still hoped their people could change, you see. I think the traveller still hoped to love them into something different, no matter how difficult, no matter how impossible.

They never got the chance. There was only one way to end the war, after all. Only one way, as is often the case, in stories.

A sacrifice.

Legend says that the traveller used an ancient relic. Old magic. Something so old and so powerful that it had its own conscience. Something so old and so powerful that only the truly desperate or the truly mad could ever use it.

The war had been going on for many years, you see. The traveller had lost friends, lost family. Lost everything. And in the name of peace, in the name of sanity, the traveller had to make the choice that no one else could. The sacrifice that no one else could.

A sacrifice only means something if you love it, after all.

The stories say that the traveller walked out into the desert and used the old relic and awoke something so powerful that it destroyed the great warrior race and ended the war. But the traveller’s planet was destroyed too, you see. Their people. Their people’s children.

And the traveller thought to die, but the story went on, as stories are wont to do.

The traveller lived.

—

The traveller lived, and the war was over, but now the traveller was truly alone. The last of their kind in the universe. You can imagine it, can’t you? That kind of loneliness. Or perhaps you can’t. Perhaps none of us can.

But don’t worry. An ending is just a beginning, remember.

The traveller didn’t disappear, though no one could have blamed them. The story went on. The traveller had lost everything, but there must have still been a spark of hope in them. In fact, the traveller, by some accounts, went back to where they had once been exiled. They made new friends. They had marvellous adventures. They did things that were great and terrible, but mostly they did things that were kind. The story went on.

And sometimes, everybody lived.

Oh. You didn’t think this story had an ending, did you? No, no. That is not how this story works.

The traveller is a helper. The traveller never stays still. The traveller is never _finished_. This is a story about time, and time never _stops_.

There are stories still, you see. They were there, at the Medusa Cascade, at the Battle of Trenzalore, at Demon’s Run. Up in the stars, always running. Always helping.

You may occasionally hear stories of a monster with the traveller’s name. They may be true. Certainly I am not one to say. But they are not the whole truth, never the _whole_ truth. The traveller is a helper, remember, not a hero. The traveller is not there to remind us to be brave. The traveller is there to remind us to be kind.

The story of the traveller reminds us to look up. The story of the traveller reminds us to run. The story of the traveller—

—

“—reminds us that help is never far from those who need it.” The storyteller’s eyes crinkled, gleaming in the firelight. Her wrinkled lips pulled into a smile. “And that we should always take care to help each other. That we should never stop helping each other.” Her gaze grew more solemn as she drew the story to a close. “Time is precious to us, because we touch it so briefly. We must do justly by each other _now_, we must help each other _now_.”

Her eyebrows raised slightly, as she tilted her wizened head up to the stars.

“The traveller is out there somewhere,” she said, her ancient voice reedy with quiet strength. She tapped her heart with a gnarled finger. “But you can find them in here just as easily, if you know where to look.”

The story ended like a spell. Sudden, quick. The children and adults scattered on the cool grass beyond them began to shift and stand and quietly talk. Their voices were absorbed by the night, by the crackling fire between them and the story teller.

In the shade of a great old tree, Yaz took in a breath.

“This is it, you said,” she breathed quietly. “The first and last time they’ll tell this story for a hundred years.”

The Doctor was only a quiet silhouette behind her. When Yaz twisted her head to peer back at her, her face was hidden in the shadows of the tree.

“No shortage of stories, on Quintas,” she murmured. Yaz thought she heard the hint of a smile in her voice. “And a lesson in every one. It’s how they store their morals. Their ethics, their philosophy. The basis of their whole civilization, really.”

“And that one?” Ryan pondered with a yawn, peeling himself from the trunk of the tree, where Yaz had definitely caught him snoring quietly about halfway through. “What’s the lesson, then?”

Graham swatted him gently on the arm. “If you hadn’t fallen asleep in the middle—”

“I was listening’,” he protested.

The Doctor stepped out from the shadow of the tree, smiling faintly. Her eyes were very far away.

“It’s just a story,” she said mildly. “What you get from it is up to you.”

She stood there for a moment, very still, until she caught the storyteller’s gaze. She raised a brief hand in greeting, or maybe in thanks. For a moment, she looked very, very old. Then she turned to leave, a bounce in her step, coat trailing behind her in the warm night breeze.

“Come on, fam,” she said, walking away, though when she glanced over her shoulder she was still smiling. “Next stop, everywhere. No time to lose.”

“Plenty of time to lose,” Ryan muttered, making his way carefully over the tree roots as they followed her. “On account of your ship that travels in _time_.”

The three of them paused, in tandem, as she strode ahead of them.

“You don’t think,” Yaz ventured quietly.

“What?” Ryan said. “Nah. No way.”

“Hmm,” was all Graham said.

They walked in comfortable silence back to the TARDIS, the air warm on their faces, the forest lush and green and alien around them.

On to the next adventure.

And the story went on.

**Author's Note:**

> OG note: [*jazz hands* heyyyy it's ya girl filling in today's prompt for Thirteen Week (you can find more deets about Thirteen Week and about the fanzine associated with it on tumblr @thirteenfanzine!) - today's prompt was 'time' and, you know, as you can see, I definitely....sorta....scraped by on it. 
> 
> Listen I don't know what this is, but I hope you enjoyed it. I'd love to know what you thought!
> 
> \- W]


End file.
